<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Of Some Other Metal by Killtheselights, TheLadyoftheHouse</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29323665">Of Some Other Metal</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killtheselights/pseuds/Killtheselights'>Killtheselights</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyoftheHouse/pseuds/TheLadyoftheHouse'>TheLadyoftheHouse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blacksmithing, F/M, Jousting, Renaissance Faires, Side FinnRose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:21:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,193</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29323665</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killtheselights/pseuds/Killtheselights, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyoftheHouse/pseuds/TheLadyoftheHouse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a glamorous life, but for the past four seasons, Rey's job as a trash collector at the Jakku County Renaissance Faire has been her lifeline, an escape into a fantasy world she couldn't have otherwise afforded. This year, however, there are plenty of changes to the Grove. With an updated storyline for the Faire, Rey's trusted friends are now stars on the rise and her routines, the little anchors that made the fairgrounds home, are being challenged. </p><p>But not all changes are bad; the blacksmith's forge has a new owner, and the intense apprentice blacksmith has caught her eye. She suspects, however, that this new face isn't what he seems to be, even as she finds herself, perhaps against her will, falling for him.</p><p>Here's to another Faire season. Huzzah.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Of Some Other Metal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There was a sense of quiet energy in the woods that morning. The ground crunched softly under Rey’s worn leather boots as she crept through the grove, shoving the sleeves of her loose linen shirt up past her elbows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She loved this time of the morning, just before everything started. Before it got too hot and her clothes stuck to her skin and the dust got into her pores. She took a deep breath of the misty morning air, soaking in the murmuring wood and the calm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until the cannons went off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey jumped, her eyes snapping open just in time to see the gates open and throngs of people come pouring in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And thus, the first day of the 2020 season of the Jakku County Renaissance Faire at Rebel Grove had begun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, cheers to another year,” an elderly man in a squire's uniform said to no one in particular before taking a swig (of water, hopefully, Rey thought) out of his mug and shuffling off toward the fairgrounds’ gate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorted a little laugh and hoisted her canvas bag over her shoulder, striding purposefully toward the food court, her trash picker sticking in the wood chips like a walking stick. Thankfully it was early enough that she knew there wouldn’t be any trash in the bins yet. Not even the denizens of Jakku County could create trash if the Grove had only been open for five minutes. In the meantime, she could stroll about and say hi to the regulars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she ambled, she greeted the denizens of Rebel Grove. Tallie and Snap, the jugglers, paused in their antics for a moment to wave at her. Old Master Ackbar was already puffing on his long pipe and painting an intricate sea monster on a wooden sword. Mistress Holdo of Ninka Clothiers, the luxury boutique, wafted a glimmering scarf in her direction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morrow! Happy Opening Day!” she called. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey waved back. “Hope the business is good today!” she returned with a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The morning smells of turkey legs and fried items, both on and off sticks, flooded the crowded walkway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After four years as an official Rebel Grove trash rat, she knew the rhythms of the faire and, somewhat to her chagrin, the rhythms of the people making the garbage therein. She probably wouldn’t need to go by the food court for at least another half hour. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Should probably swing by the Silver Hart, though, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought to herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Never underestimate day drinkers. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her second season with the Faire (and the minor public health event that had been dubbed the Great Labor Day Weekend Purging of 2017) had taught her that much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey could probably have filled a book with the vital, albeit esoteric, rules she had learned over the last several years. Never accept drinks from patrons, no matter how thirsty you are (in both senses of the word); engage with D&amp;D groups on field trips at your own risk; always wear thick soled boots; ‘thy’ is the possessive, ‘thou’ is the singular pronoun, ‘ye’ is the plural pronoun; and </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>break character. And yes, even trash rats were characters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her friend Finn, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sir </span>
  </em>
  <span>Finn this year since he’d been promoted from squire to knight last summer, had described it as “no-budget Disney.” They weren’t employees, perse, they were cast members. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Call it a cult, call it kayfabe, call it the only LARP you get paid to play, but Rey </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Renaissance Faire. Ever since that fateful summer five years ago when she and Finn had first visited Rebel Grove as muggles, she’d been enthralled with the mad magic and unapologetic joy of the place. They became so enamoured that they ended up going back four more times that season, nearly went stone broke doing it, and then spent the whole off-season wishing they were there. Finn had gotten friendly with Sir Dameron, the newest knight of the realm, and had managed to score an audition, one that he nailed thanks to his theatre major and two semesters of stage combat. At the time, Finn didn’t have a car, so he had begged Rey to apply for a spot so they could carpool. She’d needed the money to supplement her work study and had quickly gotten a position as trash rat, thanks to her...well, they were desperate for an extra set of hands and Unkar Plutt, the sanitation manager, hadn’t even bothered to look over her meager resume. Victory thus achieved, Finn and Rey started their new positions that August and the rest was anachronistic, magical history.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d made friends with the other regulars easily, but as always, Rey couldn’t help but feel somewhat removed from their little posse. She’d always been a solitary creature, even as a kid. The foster system had instilled in her a strong sense of self-preservation. She kept her own council and valued her safe spaces. Aging out of the system and into the perpetual hunger and scavenging of undergrad hadn’t been easy, but a solid work study at the university library and whatever seasonal or gig work she could find somehow carried her through her four years without issue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was tough everywhere else, holding the world at arm’s length to keep herself safe. But at the Grove? She blossomed, eased, gentled. She skipped through each season without complaint and with a smile on her face, even elbow-deep in ruptured trash bags and wasp stings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even so, this season she couldn’t shake that amorphous sense, that persistent thorn, that there was something she was missing out on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the musicians warmed up at the pub for the morning revel, the din and her thoughts were interrupted by a loud, ear-splitting clanking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey made her way toward the noise, skipping a bit in time with the pipes and tabors as she walked. Something about the music here always made her want to dance. Even though that god-awful clanging was messing with the drumbeat. The Armorer must have gotten an early start on her latest piece.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound, the crash of metal on metal, came from the large open smithy hidden behind the pub. The morning light glinted off the blades of mounted swords and the tiny links in chainmail armor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well...this person was clearly not the curvaceous, enigmatically-named lady whom Rey had known from years prior. She had been fairly certain that she knew absolutely everyone after four years of intense weekends and buzzed closing day bonfires in the employee campground, even the folks who helped out when store-owners couldn’t make it to the Grove.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This gentleman was not someone she had ever seen before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind the counter, awash in the angry red light of the forge, a man was wailing on a piece of glowing iron with a large hammer. Rey was surprised to discover that the smith was quite young and toned for how robust a sound he was producing. He paused, wiping at his brow on the sleeve of his loose linen shirt, already doused in sweat despite the mild morning air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeming to sense that he was being watched, he half turned to look over his shoulder. Tall and dark-haired with shoulders as broad as a barn, he was quietly handsome, a fact that she could tell even from beyond the smithy’s doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dark eyes caught for a long moment on her, seeming to take in her oversized smock of a shirt and her trash picker stick. She held his silent stare, a mutual observation. The corner of his mouth crept upward into a crooked smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey felt her cheeks heat lightly and smiled timidly back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was just about to venture into the forge when her walkie talkie crackled and broke her out of her reverie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hands to the Silver Hart, if you please,” rasped Phasma, the tavern owner, over the speaker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey raised the device to her mouth to answer, but another trash rat had already gotten on the horn, mumbling their “on my way” through the static.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she looked back up to meet the blacksmith’s enigmatic gaze again, he had already turned back to his forge, the flames creating dancing shadows across the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The walkie squawked again, shattering her thoughts with a jump. She let out a little sigh and turned to stride back into the main thoroughfare, her cheeks as warm as if it were she standing before the crucible herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Rey had already been armpit deep in trashbags for an hour and her pickup bag was full of loose wrappers and discarded stakes when the sound of trumpets broke through the clearing. Costumed staff ran around corralling faire-goers into the fringes of the grove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the first royal procession of the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey took a knee on the wood chips and watched as the colorful parade made its way into the clearing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Queen Leia was resplendent in a gown of blue and silver, a crown of sapphires glittering in her intricately braided hair. A nervous looking gentleman in yellow with round spectacles followed closely beside her and a train of courtiers in many colors trailed behind her. The queen stopped in the center of the hollow and waited for her subjects to attend to her speech. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lord Threepio!” Queen Leia pronounced, her raspy voice ringing out in the wood. “Is it not a fine day to be among such a fair assembly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is, Your Majesty,” the man tutted nervously. “But I would be aware...I have heard some ill tidings might befall the kingdom!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few courtiers gasped theatrically. Rey grinned to herself. The queen looked playfully inquisitive and seemingly unconcerned with her courtiers’ dramatics. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ill tidings, my Lord? Surely nothing ill can come about on so fair a day and in so lovely a wood?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few faire-goers whooped in agreement. Queen Leia smiled magnanimously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speak, Lord Threepio!” she commanded. “We would know these ill tidings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ma’am, word has come from the great Wizard Skywalker, your brother, that there are dark forces descending upon the glade, set to arrive this very day before the sun shall set!” Lord Threepio announced. There were dramatic gasps from the regulars in the crowd this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Queen’s expression hardened. “Yes, I have heard rumors of a Black Knight that has plagued our neighboring kingdoms. Surely he would not be so bold as to threaten our sovereignty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snapped her fingers. “Sir Dameron, approach!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A handsome knight, not yet in his armor but still wearing the colors of House Organa, surged forward from the back of the procession and turned to kneel before the queen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sir Dameron knelt before the queen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are our first knight, our greatest defender.” She looked to the crowd and raised her voice. “We charge you to do your duty and protect our realm from this threat. Should you encounter this menace, this Black Knight, we do charge you to do battle with him…and win. Do you accept this challenge?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is my greatest honor, my Queen,” Poe bellowed. “No invading knight shall darken the soil of Rebel Grove. I will assemble the kingdom's finest fighters to meet this threat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud chorus of “Hurrah!” was taken up by the courtiers, who encouraged the surrounding crowd to join in the noise. Rey threw a few hearty shouts in herself, happy to be swept up in the ballyhoo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was a different court play than the last several years. There hadn’t been a Black Knight in Rebel Grove for some time, if the old-timers were to be believed. Rumor had it that Queen Leia’s real-life husband, Han, had played the Black Knight for many years before his retirement. It was how the two of them met, back when the Queen had been a Princess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey sighed wistfully to herself. Though she was a generally practical person, she couldn’t deny the draw that grand gestures and chivalric romances had on her. She was a hopeless romantic at heart and part of her longed to have such an experience one day. She craned her neck to try to catch Sir Finn’s eye, grinning when his gaze flicked briefly to her. He quickly looked away, his expression serious, and she couldn’t help but feel a slight sting of rejection. It was ridiculous to feel as such, she knew; he was working, he couldn’t break character, and what reason would he have to pay any sort of attention to a lowly trash rat. But even so, she couldn’t reason away the bruise on her heart. Not entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now!” cried Sir Dameron, gesturing to his squire and his compatriots. “Let us to the tavern, that we may devise our plan of attack against the wicked Black Knight!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a whoop, the procession shifted away from the queen to pursue Sir Dameron and hear him tell of his plans, Sir Finn leading the pack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey was left alone in the middle of the grove, surrounded by the merriment of Opening Day once more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She didn’t see the handsome blacksmith until much later at the tavern for the closing pub sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t been looking for him or anything. She’d been looking for the Knights Dameron and Finn. They always did the first pub sing of the season together. Every year since the first they’d all gotten together to get buzzed at the Silver Hart and sing old sea shanties as badly and as loudly as possible. They’d spin around arm in arm until they were all laughing hard and out of breath, messy-haired and rosy-cheeked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But her boys hadn’t come, even though most of the court drama actors had trickled in by now and the music and dancing was in full swing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her tankard felt heavy in her hand. She took a deep draught of her cider, swallowing down that bitter sting at the base of her throat with sweetness, letting it coat her insides with effervescent warmth. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tomorrow they’ll be here, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she told herself. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’ll be fine. You’re overreacting.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She peeked back over her shoulder one more time, just to check, when she saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Following a scruffy older man with a sour expression, the blacksmith carried a large leather bound bundle across his broad shoulders, the bag bristling with dented armor and nicked swords. The older man seemed to be grumbling at the younger as they walked. The dark-haired man stopped briefly as he caught sight of Rey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled and raised her cup in his direction. The beginnings of a grin alighted on his generous lips and he looked ready to lay down his burden to join her when the older man barked something indiscernible over his shoulder. The blacksmith’s face blanked and he shifted his grip on his pack, shook his head apologetically, and strode to catch up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey’s smile dimmed, but not for long. The musicians were striking up another song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunday dawned just as hot as the day before, the wood hazy and thick with August humidity. September had yet to crisp the air, something that Rey prayed for fervently as she milled about the hollow just after the morning cannon. She already felt damp and it wasn’t even noon yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her wandering feet carried her, seemingly unconsciously toward the smithy at the center of the hollow. The young blacksmith was at his work already, his clanging echoing in the grove.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stopped at the edge of the smithy, the toes of her boots just barely scraping the line where the stone floor met the wood chips outside. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him, fascinated by the rhythmic flex of his back and shoulders as he struck his hammer against the hot iron. The thought came to her unbidden and bowled her over with its intensity: she wanted to know him. She wanted to know what his voice sounded like. She wanted to know how he came to be here, how he learned his trade, what magic brought him to brush up against her quiet little existence here at the Grove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, said a smaller voice somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, she wanted him to know her as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re new,” she blurted out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A winning start to any conversation</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she thought with an internal cringe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man, paused, hammered one more time then glanced at her. “From a certain point of view, my lady, I suppose I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorted, hoping he couldn’t tell that his voice, deep and rich, made her shiver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m no lady,” she scoffed, gesturing to her simple garb. “You’re definitely new, then. At the Grove, that is. I’ve never seen you before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess not, my lady," he said simply, striking the iron one more time before turning back to her. “But that's not because I haven't been here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s remarkably cryptic for so early in the morning.” She leaned against the counter. “Care to elucidate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped closer to her, into a beam of bright morning sunlight. This was the closest they had ever been and she couldn’t help but take him in up close. His dark hair, falling in low, lazy curls, hung loosely around his shoulders. He wore tight breeches and a quickly dirtying white linen shirt, collared with a low V neckline. Under his shirt Rey could just see the outlines of those powerful muscles, capable of making such a ruckus...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you shopping or merely admiring the merchandise?” he asked slyly, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her cheeks burned hotter than the forge and her eyes snapped to her feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, uh, no,” she stammered. “Just making the rounds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if anything catches your eye, let me know, my lady,” he said, bobbing his head teasingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything?” she asked, her mouth running away with her before she could catch it again. She blushed even harder and fidgeted where she stood, biting back a shy smile. “I’m afraid I might not be your demographic, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone and anyone is my demographic, if you like sharp, pointy things and medieval power fantasies,” he said. Rey noticed the sign behind the counter that indicated that purchases could only be made by adults, but the smith seemed to ignore that. “I am but a craftsman. The burden of desire falls on </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>my lady. Swords not your style?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scanned her up and down, taking in the trash collector's tunic and hand-me-down faire attire. There was a hint of mockery in his voice. “I can make you a diadem, if that's more your speed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey laughed lightly, her eyebrow arched. She held up her trash picker, eyeing the needle-sharp point with feigned interest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’m well-equipped enough in the way of weaponry, good sir,” she drawled. “And as for a pretty frippery, do you think you could create something that would do this—” she gestured to herself “—</span>
  <em>
    <span>finery</span>
  </em>
  <span> its proper justice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled to himself. “So do you like being a rubbish wench?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spun the trash picker on its point against the smithy floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a very pretty way of saying ‘trash rat,’” she mused, then shrugged. “I like it well enough. It gets me out to the faire every weekend and I get to go where I please, so long as the garbage gets picked up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She surveyed him and his forge with a curious eye. “Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> like being a blacksmith?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Pays bills. Kills time. Lets me hit things with hammers. Takes me to exotic…” He gestured at the grove around them. “Kingdoms. Fairgrounds. Sweaty nerd conventions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey laughed. “I wonder how many </span>
  <span>Andúril’s you’ve been commissioned for over the years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled. “Sting is more of my specialty.” He turned back to the forge. “My master was working deep in the Lord of the Rings craze. He's done way more than me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She skirted around the edge of the smithy, picking carefully around bristling iron tools and finished blades. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not a master?” she asked. “Sorry, I don’t know the first thing about metalworking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I could be. But I don't have my own shop yet. I still work for the guy I trained under. He has...a unique style, so I wanted to learn from the best. He's out and about, so I'm alone here for now, I guess. At least until it gets busier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I see.” She had come to a little bouquet of wrought iron and silver hairpins. Roses and lilies seemed the most prevalent but one silver daisy stood out. It was simple but expertly crafted, each delicate petal shimmered in the morning light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These are lovely,” she murmured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He put his tools away before approaching her. “Those? Oh, they're nothing,” he said with a proud smile that betrayed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She traced a daisy petal with the tip of her finger. “Are they yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just something I threw together,” he said with a lazy shrug. “I’m glad they've found a fan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey smiled up at him. “You do really beautiful work,” she said. She gazed longingly back down at the daisy, her face falling a bit. She forced her hand away from the metal bouquet with a rueful sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too fine for the likes of me…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and I both know that's not true,” he chided, folding his arms and propping them on the counter in front of her. “This is the Renaissance Faire! What's it for if not for bringing dreams and fantasies to life?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pointed at the hairpin. “What about you makes you think yourself unworthy of such a trinket?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, for one thing, I’m sure I can’t afford it.” She stepped back and did a sardonic little twirl.  “And for another, it kind of clashes with my whole ‘rubbish wench’ aesthetic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, nothing clashes worse than wearing Nikes and medieval gowns but people do it every day,” the blacksmith said pointedly. “And anyway, how much would you pay for it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Far less than it’s probably worth,” she retorted. “You work hard, you have real skill, you should be paid for it. I hate seeing artisans being underpaid for their work. And I can’t afford fine silverwork on a trash rat’s wage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not inflating myself or devaluing you. I genuinely want to know what you would give me for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tapped his fingers on the rough wood counter. “How much do they pay you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny but tried to keep the proud tilt of her head. “$7.25 an hour,” she mumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shot him a challenging look. “Not exactly a prince’s ransom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D'you know much do they get paid?” he crooked a thumb over at the large flower crown booth, loaded with fake blossoms and colorful ribbons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...no, I don’t.” She watched Mistress Larma fit a coronet of silk sunflowers onto a little girl’s braided head. “Probably more than me, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about them?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over by the pub, two of the rose sellers walked along, baskets of flowers slung over their arms. They crossed over in front of the forge and waved to the blacksmith. His eyes never left Rey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re trying to prove a point, kindly get on with it,” she growled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled his eyes. “Well, are you in love with this job? I know you're here because you want to work at the faire, but...what job would you rather have? In the whole wide faire, what else would you rather be doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She followed the rose girls with her eyes as they twirled and swung their wares, the bells on their ankles tinkling sweetly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It might be nice to smell like flowers instead of garbage for a change…” she mused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And occasionally, metal blooms, I take it?” he asked, cocking his head toward the hairpin display.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed lightly, her gaze catching on the delicate silver petals. “If I’m lucky…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not taking apprentices at the moment, but I'm not sure why in a place full of fantasies and make believe you want to keep lugging garbage. How long have you been at it, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About four years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Four?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he asked, not even trying to disguise his shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, you're too qualified to be a trash rat. That's a job for teenage boys whose parents run the crystal shop so they don't spend all day smoking pot in the staff campground.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His response, still mildly hurtful, seemed to land a bit softer with his intense gaze on her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you come back year after year?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean...it’s not that bad. Rebel Grove is my happy place. So if I have to pick up trash to be here, then that’s what I’ll do,” she said simply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if you didn't have to?” he asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, if I could work anywhere in the Faire? ‘Cuz I sure can’t afford to come every weekend for the whole season on my own dime.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But would you? I mean, you're so invested in everyone else's magical experience that you kind of get the worst one. Short of mucking the stables. Not that I would know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grinned. “I don’t know, something tells me there’s deep-seeded trauma there regarding horse manure,” she chuckled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile turned thoughtful then. “Yeah, I think I probably would. I make my own magic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he said. “I guess that explains why I can't let you leave without taking a hair pin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just want to give me a one of a kind piece of art?” she said incredulously. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodness of my heart?” he scoffed. “No, this is a marketing ploy. I need someone to show them off for me so other maidens will want one,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I wouldn't mind your name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The corner of her mouth curled upward and her heart thumped hard in her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rey,” she said, extending her hand to him. “I’m Rey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rey,” he repeated. She liked the sound. “Take the pin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, you just don’t quit, do you?” She approached the counter with slow, lazy steps. “Anyone ever told you that you’re kind of intense?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once or twice,” he shrugged. “Take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no I couldn’t possibly. You obviously worked hard on it, I need to pay you for it!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll figure something out. I need to market them to the customers. If you'll wear it, take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you saying you actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be paid in exposure?” she said incredulously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you said, I'm new here or something. Need to stand out from the other blade jockeys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gaped at him for a moment, her gaze falling back to the beautiful flowers in their little earthenware pot. Her eyes flicked back up to him.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re absolutely sure? You won’t get in trouble?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blacksmith chuckled, a crooked grin brightening his face. He picked up the silver daisy and held it out to her, his large hand making it look even more delicate by comparison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I’ll survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see you’ve finally found yourself a friend, Blacksmith,” came the nasally, faux-British accent of everyone’s “favorite” lordling: Hux. “And how quaint, she’s just as unwashed as you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blacksmith’s face darkened like a storm cloud. Rey’s face went hot. But there were customers surrounding them on all sides, watching as the show played out before them. Number one rule of the Faire: don’t break character around the muggles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My Lord,” the blacksmith muttered between gritted teeth. “Why have you deigned to visit my humble forge?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hux brushed an invisible speck of dirt from his black velvet doublet. Rey smirked to herself. He would be absolutely dying in that by the time noon rolled around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve come to speak with your master on the matter of my sword. Is he about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he told me he had an appointment with the Queen, but I can help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hux looked him up and down and scoffed. “If I must.” He batted a hand theatrically at Rey. “Begone, wench.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked back at him incredulously, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. She cut an exaggerated, flourishing bow, much to the amusement of a nearby group of muggles with their phones out. Then she turned to the blacksmith with a small smile and a bob of the head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shall see you anon, good sir,” she murmured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lady’s a valued customer,” the smith said, a challenge in his tone. “She is free to do as she will. We can handle our business.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey raised a placating hand. “It’s alright, I should be making my rounds anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blacksmith directed a glare towards her. “Don’t let this one bother you, my lady. He's not as important as he thinks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A millennial in a hawaiian shirt gasped to his friend, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Drama</span>
  </em>
  <span>…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh I know, sir, His Lordship and I have met afore,” she said cheerfully. “Truly, though, I must be going before Master Plutt tans my hide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled again at the blacksmith. “But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>see you anon, master blacksmith. If you’ll permit it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At your leisure, my lady,” he said with a bob of his dark, shaggy head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grinned and turned to go, but stopped just before she left the forge completely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must pardon me, sir. I gave you my name, but I never asked yours,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, I'm quite busy, sir,” Hux snapped. “Surely, this fraternizing can wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now now, Your Lordship. Manners,” chided Rey. She looked expectantly at the taller man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Ben, my lady,” the blacksmith said quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile lit up her face like a sunny day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ben the blacksmith,” she murmured. “I like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spun back to the grove past the shade of the forge and started to stride down the small hill leading into the deeper wood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shall see you anon, Ben the blacksmith!” she called over her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben raised his hand to wave, but before he could respond he was barked at by Lord Hux, and the two began bickering again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey practically galloped down the hill, making her way toward the food court. Plutt would likely ream her out for being late to pick up the day-drinkers’ garbage, but she couldn’t be bothered to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her thoughts were filled with a handsome blacksmith.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The afternoon dragged on as she made round after round, circling the fairgrounds. Giddy with the thought of another tete-a-tete with the handsome blacksmith, she tripped her way down the hollow and around the back of the smithy where the forge burned hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Must be on break, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought, trying not to feel too disappointed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she slowly passed the forge, she caught a glimpse of the grungy old man she had seen the night before by the crucible. Snoke, she guessed, the master smith. She raised a hand in awkward greeting as she caught his eye. His wrinkled face curled into a glare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you have trash to play with, girl?” he growled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stopped, shocked at his immediate disdain. She dropped her eyes to the forest floor and dashed away, deeper into the faire and away from the heat of the forge. </span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she knew it, the day had come to a close in a haze of dust and turkey legs and bagpipe music. By the time she finally got the chance to sit still for longer than fifteen minutes, Rey found herself sitting in the Silver Hart for the closing pub sing. Rose and Paige, the two sisters that made up Rebel Grove’s premiere musical sensation, Bombastica, were flitting around the open air pavilion, passing laminated song sheets to every table. Rose winked at Rey as she stopped by her table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long day, Sunshine?” she chirped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey groaned and took a sip of her Bee Sting. “I don’t even remember how this drink got into my hand, Rosie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rose grimaced. “Oof, that’s rough. Well, you drink that down and relax, sweetie. You’ve earned it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey raised her cup in acknowledgment and settled in to watch the merriment. A stool was pulled out beside Rey’s table, and a boisterous, handsome man took a seat beside her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are my favorite girls doing?” Sir Finn said, settling down with his ale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey grinned and shoulder checked him wearily. “I never want to see another turkey leg bone ever again. And it’s still only Opening Weekend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tapped his stoneware tankard with her plastic cup. “I didn’t get over to the tiltyard at all this weekend. How were the jousts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Intense!” Finn’s eyes lit up. “No lie, this show is the best yet. You know how I was complaining about how stale it was getting last year?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d spent practically the entire offseason bemoaning it in their group chat, Rey thought, but she was too polite to bring it up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d mentioned it, yeah,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “I always liked it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well this year’s is something else!” Finn said, gesturing broadly with his hands. “The story is so good! And the fight choreo is incredible!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So who’s the guy in the black armor, then?” she asked, her curiosity overriding her exhaustion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finn opened his mouth to answer when a rumbling drum roll announced the beginning of the pub sing. Paige Tico, bedecked head to toe in silky fabrics and tiny brass bells, called out over the crowd to join in as loudly and as out of tune as possible before she and Rose exploded into “Drunken Sailor.” Immediately delighted and distracted, Finn roared his approval along with the other pub customers and stamped his feet in time to Paige’s drum and Rose’s pipes. Similarly distracted, Rey sipped her grog with a slight smile, delighted to watch the dregs of the Faire, mostly regulars and people without kids, let loose and dance along to the music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she watched the gathering move into full swing, a flash of off-white linen and black hair snagged at the corner of her eye. Ben the blacksmith was striding down the hollow, hair damp with sweat and his shirt clinging to the contours of his muscles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He vanished into the crowd headed in the direction of the blacksmith shop. In a whirl of dancers, she lost him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned back to bid Finn a hasty goodbye, but he was linked arm in arm with one of the court ladies and swirling around deliriously. Instead, she downed the rest of her drink and slipped out the back of the pub. The trees and storefronts whipped past her as she ran for the forge, hoping to catch the enigmatic blacksmith before he left. She nearly mowed down a few stragglers as she went, but she didn’t rightly care. She didn’t want to wait a whole week before she saw him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She burst into the open-air shop, her leather boots skidding on the stone floor with a rasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ben?” she shouted into the forge. “Are you there? It’s Rey. The trash rat from this morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was met with silence and the faint thudding of the drumbeat up the hill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—I wanted to see you before the weekend closed.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to speak to the empty shop and the ghost of the blacksmith. “To...talk with you. I liked talking with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She listened for any sound but received nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess...I guess I’ll see you next weekend,” she said, a bit dejected. “Goodbye, Ben the blacksmith. ‘Til we meet again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walked out silently, letting the faint tune of “Scarborough Fair” carry her feet back up to the Silver Hart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you are!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hard to miss Sir Dameron. The House Organa colors were blazing bright as a sunset, enhanced by the real sun’s dying rays. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled wearily. “Evening, Sir Dameron. Looking for me, were you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The party didn’t feel complete without you. Old Plutt on your case again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not too badly today, but opening weekend is always a bit of a challenge. The court shows were great, by the way. I’ll have to make a point to see the joust next weekend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? I’m glad you liked them. Weird to be the lead this year,” Dameron smiled proudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finn said the fight choreo is really good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Poe crowed. “It’s so cool. I hope someone puts it on YouTube for posterity, I want to keep it forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rey chuckled, shaking her head. “Next weekend, I’ll do my damnedest to get out to the yard to see it. Promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cheer rose from the tavern at the top of the hill. Her eyes followed the sound up into the setting sunlight gilding the trees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shall we go lighten our heels, Sir Dameron?” she quipped, affecting the lilting cadence that most of the character actors adopted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He offered her his arm. “After you, my lady.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed gaily and took his arm, curling her fingers into the soft linen of his shirt. As they trudged up the hill back to the Silver Hart, she let herself look back at the forge, dark and cooling in the center of the hollow. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Next time, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Next time, Ben the blacksmith.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Our state, playing it safe this year, opted against having a Renn Faire, so we dug up this fic idea we had after the 2018 Faire and dusted it off for the purpose of living out our giant turkey leg fantasies/Sea Shanty life in the midst of a Global Panasonic.</p><p>This is going to cover the 8 weeks of the faire, but will update as we iron out the timeline. </p><p>Also, you have to say nice things about this first chapter because it's Vee's birthday tomorrow so you gotta you just gotta.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>